Mr Darcy & Elizabeth: The Fashionable and Young
by alyssajeffersonbooks
Summary: Elizabeth Bennet and her three sisters have the great misfortune of losing their mother at a very early age. Their family adapts, but when Mr. Bennet meets a wealthy woman in Bath and makes her his bride, life at Longbourn changes drastically. This short story is the prologue to the full-length Pride and Prejudice variation novel, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth: The Fashionable and Young.


**Prologue to ****_The Fashionable and Young_**

**_Chapter 1_**

A cool mist settled over Longbourn village on the day Mr. Thomas Bennet lost his wife. The sprawling farm yard beyond the house was just beginning to frost in the cool autumn air, and the clouds that hid the sun made a melancholy light peer timidly through the window of his unfortunate wife's bedroom, where he now sat with the apothecary, as heavy and forlorn as the morning fog.

Mrs. Bennet had been expecting the couple's fifth child when a sudden illness claimed the life of both mother and child, and the only consolation for the grieving widower had been that the child that was lost was not a son, but another daughter. Though Mr. Bennet loved his four young daughters, their odd whims and rambunctious tendencies, it was a boy who would be eligible to inherit the modest estate over which Mr. Bennet now presided. As it was, his girls could not be provided for following his eventual death unless he had a son—and all hope of his fifth child being the one to redeem the prospects of his family was floating away on the same thick, indifferent mist.

Living in the principle home in his parish made Mr. Bennet rather above his neighbors and friends. His wife had been raised in the neighboring town of Meryton, and while she was popular among their neighbors, Mr. Bennet was not in the habit of visiting among them the way she was. He was a quiet soul, more disposed for retirement in his library and quiet, intellectual merriment at home. Yet the sad news must be communicated to their general acquaintance, and it must be communicated by himself; as his eldest daughter was only seven years old, there was nobody else to do it. He left the bedroom and descended the stairs to his own library, seeing it now with new eyes. He had always liked to retreat to this room to be alone, and his young wife had never minded it. She had been strict in her notions of what was owed to her husband; neither she nor her daughters ever visited him in that room. It was the place where he could be totally alone—but now, was not his whole house such a place? The desolation of his circumstances filled his thoughts everywhere he turned.

Seated at his desk, he began to compose the requisite letters, having not the delicacy nor the presence of mind to present the news as anything other than what it was—an immense tragedy from which he could see no relief. He poured out his feelings on paper, then copied the paper repeatedly, word for word, until he had letters for every neighbor, friend, and cousin who might be concerned to know the dreadful news. His wife's sister and brother must be informed, of course; his own cousins in Shropshire and Kent ought also to hear from him. His wife's friends in Meryton ought to learn it, as well—though upon further reflection, he thought they might learn soon enough from the apothecary or the undertaker. The rather more expedient means of sharing news—telling it to a servant—had of course already occurred. It would not be long before the whole neighborhood was aware of the misfortune that was now his. It would be better, however, if they heard from him in his own words. He did not want to be the subject of neighborhood gossip; he had never cared for gossip, though his poor wife had loved it.

Very little was said—and as the letter was copied, word for word, onto ten different pages and dispatched into ten neat envelopes to be sent around the country, Mr. Bennet's hands worked mechanically, equally without thought or care. They might as well have been letters of business, and probably looked like letters of business when they arrived at their destinations throughout England. Correspondence such as this ought to have been a woman's job.

Visitors from town were quick in succession—Mrs. Bennet's own sister and brother, several neighbors and friends, and business associates of Mr. Bennet's. The family received their consolations without much being noticed by Mr. Bennet. He had not the wherewithal to attend to his daughters, nor to see to his own business. He was groping blindly through grief, unable to determine what ought to be done next or where to go. His wife's sister, a young woman recently engaged to a Meryton attorney, was the sole person left to care what happened at Longbourn, and her opinions filled Mr. Bennet's ears continually, most presciently on the topic of the children—for his sister-in-law was adamant that a governess should not be hired for the girls.

"Jane never wanted a governess," she said seriously, the first time Mr. Bennet mentioned it to her. "Why should one be needed? The girls still have me, you know, to raise them."

"Shall you not have children of your own?" Mr. Bennet replied. "Then you will not have time for mine. I must do something."

"You will lose the management of them altogether," Miss Gardiner insisted, "if you do not superintend their education yourself. Our father never hired a governess for us, though our mother died when we were young. We have no need of such interference! Jane would be horrified by it."

"I cannot think she would," Mr. Bennet protested, though his thoughts were less with his wife than with himself. "I cannot think she would believe I could succeed, of my own devices, in bringing up the girls alone."

"You shall not be alone, however!" she repeated. "You shall have me."

They went on in this manner for some time, and for some days, without anything being decided, when a most unexpected visitor descended on Longbourn and provided to Mr. Bennet a very different way of thinking.

Mr. Bennet's cousins in Shropshire were wealthy, established, respectable people whom his father had taught him to respect a great deal—and the matriarch of this family, Mrs. Isabel Buxton, saw Mr. Bennet's letter with great shock and sorrow. Having herself lost a daughter in childbirth, she was personally affected by what she read—though the contents of the letter were sparse—and felt strongly enough toward her cousins' plight that she determined it best to visit the family directly. Not wanting to impose on them, however, she took a room in an inn nearby and arrived totally without announcement at Longbourn on the Friday fortnight after Mrs. Bennet's loss.

The name "Buxton," when announced at the parlor door, made Mr. Bennet start. He had been sitting in the room with Anna and the children, all of whom were giving the place what had come to be its usual air of chaos and nonsense, when the servant ushered the elderly lady inside, and her tall, stately figure made even the youngest children gaze up in wonder.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," she said softly, rushing forward to take his hand. "How sad an occasion this."

Mr. Bennet was too astonished that she had come to recall exactly who she was. He knew he had cousins named Buxton, knew he had written to one of them, but none of them were close enough relations to write regularly or to call or come to stay. Still, he knew this woman was of some importance in the world, for these were his most affluent relations. Therefore, he said with all the composure he could muster, "How kind of you to call on us, ma'am—and how unexpected."

"I had to come," she said boisterously, "when I saw your letter. Such a terrible loss—and with four girls to raise yourself! It is more horrible than anything one typically hears—quite atrocious! Life is so cruel. I assure you, there is not an innkeeper from here to Shropshire who has not heard of it. Merely speak the name of 'Bennet' and the room becomes silent with pity."

Mr. Bennet cringed.

"But I must know," she went on, "what are the ages of your little girls? And what are their names? I see there is one who is only a baby."

"Yes," Mr. Bennet replied, recollecting himself. "Here is my eldest, Jane. She is seven years old, and her sister Elizabeth is only five." Across the room, Anna had the other two girls gathered about her, and Mr. Bennet gestured toward them and said, "And Mary and Kitty are but three and two years old."

"I suppose that lady is their governess," Mrs. Buxton said.

"No, ma'am," Anna replied, and instantly her accent betrayed that she was not a lady, but a servant whose nursing skills could benefit only the youngest two. "I am Miss Catherine's nurse. I am no teacher!"

Mrs. Buxton raised her eyebrows, turning back toward her cousin. "Then, where is their governess, pray?"

Mr. Bennet shook his head, sighing with fatigue. "My wife did not—that is, we had not employed a governess."

"But you shall certainly have one now, shall you not?" she pressed.

"I have not determined," he said hesitatingly. "It was so important a point to my wife that the girls not think themselves important or above their—"

"Not have a governess?" Mrs. Buxton interrupted. "Being raised only by their father and nurse? It would be a shocking thing! Unheard of!"

"I have also their aunt," Mr. Bennet said slowly. "She wishes to assist in raising them, and she wants me to respect her sister's wishes."

"What is an aunt, however? No one," she said, turning a very serious eye on Mr. Bennet, "can be expected to provide truly disinterested help. No one can be relied upon to treat your family as though they are her own. You alone are responsible for the children now, and you must provide the best possible care for them. What can be more proper than a governess?"

Mr. Bennet could not answer. Since the death of his dear wife, Miss Gardiner had been his most helpful and caring companion. Though he had never cared a great deal for his wife's sister, she was the only connection to her he had remaining now. He hated to contradict her known wishes. Moreover, he was, to a degree, discomfited by the disclamation of all disinterested help from a person professedly come for the purpose. However, he was too honest and forthright a man to deny that he was relieved by the idea of having a governess. The mere thought of it made some of his anxiety dissipate, for the notion of being required to provide for his girls after his own death weighed heavily on his heart. Having a governess to raise them and teach them was the only thought that gave him any hope for their turning out well, becoming the kind of young women who would, through connections or talents, make prosperous matches. The advantage of a governess could never make up for the loss of their mother, but it could be a start.

"I believe you are correct," Mr. Bennet said slowly, and by his manner rather than with his words, he invited his cousin to be seated beside him. "I suppose I ought to ask around Meryton for the—"

"No, no, indeed," Mrs. Buxton said, in her bustling way. Across the room, the eldest girls crept nearer to her, still staring in awe at the broad, imposing figure she struck in their mother's modest parlor. "There is never anybody worth having from a small town such as this. Take my word for it, there is nobody at all worth having here! I will write for you; I will find the perfect lady for you. I know at least six families whose governesses came from the same school in London—a fine, highly reputed school."

Mr. Bennet's disposition was never one to resist the imposition of help from a person who evidently did not share his love of leisure; he was highly disposed to accept any offer on Mrs. Buxton's part, and not at all afraid of the cost of compensating such a person. He would so rather endorse another person's activity than be active himself that he began to allow himself hope that his rather busy, interfering cousin would remain with him for some time. "Will you be staying with us long, madame?" he asked.

"Oh, I shall not stay here," Mrs. Buxton cried, shaking her head. "I have taken a room at the White Crest. I am certain I shall be far less an imposition on you there, and I should never have presumed to come and demand lodging from a cousin whom I have so long neglected."

Mr. Bennet began to protest against her having neglected him, for his conscience told him that her attention had never been wanted. But she interrupted again, saying, "And as to that, I am afraid you will think I neglect you still. Though my own circumstances are comfortable, I have nothing to do for your daughters—nothing to give them, save my advice and attention. They are sweet, pretty girls, to be sure. However, I have children with families of their own who must have the highest claim on all that is mine."

The notion of being thought a leech was unpleasant enough to Mr. Bennet that he did not deign to answer, and a short silence followed. Mrs. Buxton was first to speak again, saying with resolution, "I shall write for you directly. I shall send a note to my friend Mrs. Hutchinson in London. She has many contacts, and she always knows who is looking for work. She shall find the perfect person for you—the perfect governess for your fine girls."

Rising from her seat much more rapidly than a woman of her size ought to be able to do, she hurried to the writing desk—a spot that had been unoccupied by anybody since the death of Mrs. Bennet—and instantly claimed for her own the materials stored there for the purpose of composing her letter.

Mr. Bennet sat, meanwhile, rather astonished in his chair. He was not a man of quick decision; if left to his own devices, it might take six or eight weeks to determine what to say in such a letter, and another eight weeks to make a decision regarding the hiring of a governess. However, the cousin whose arrival had been so unexpected was in no way crippled by such indecision of mind or reluctance of action. She was an active, certain woman, confident in her own abilities and forceful in the execution of her ideas. Believing she knew what was right for her cousin, and moreover feeling in herself the right of a female relation filling the place vacated by a woman who, in her imagination, should have done just the same, she felt no guilt or regret in doing just as she wished on this occasion and sending letters on her cousin's behalf which ultimately resulted in the applications of three very fine ladies for the position of governess at Longbourn.

The letters arrived within a week, during which time Mrs. Buxton visited every day at Longbourn and Miss Phillips began never to come at all—for the two women clashed with each other in their opinions on practically everything.

"Here," Mrs. Buxton said one day when reviewing the third of these letters, "here is just what I wished would come. Here is an application from Miss Hattie Watson. Miss Watson was educated at the Livingston School in London, and though she is now looking for work, she had once very fashionable connections there. Her uncle who raised her was a judge! He is now, unfortunately, deceased—and he was able to leave her nothing, having been—" she lowered her voice, as the children were present around the dining table, "—rather a man of unsteady principles."

Then, suddenly brightening, she added, "But there can be nothing remiss in Miss Watson, to be sure! She has witnessed wickedness only to be instructed by it toward virtue. Hers is a name I have heard many times. She was working in London, but in a part of town rather less airy than where the school had been. The house, she says, did not agree with her."

Mr. Bennet had read the whole letter himself, and therefore already knew much of this information, but he let his cousin say what she wished. He had, upon receiving three letters from young ladies he had never heard of before, not the least idea of whom to select for his vacant governess post. He was pleased to hear his cousin say decisively, "I am sure, Mr. Bennet, quite sure. This ought to be the woman. You ought to write to her at once and give her your terms."

Mr. Bennet readily agreed to this but was uncertain what the terms ought to be. "May I offer…" he paused, looking doubtingly at his cousin, "twenty pounds per annum?"

"Twenty pounds!" Mrs. Buxton cried. "Good heavens! Twenty pounds will not tempt a lady in so high demand as Miss Watson. And with four daughters to raise, as well! For shame. I had not thought your circumstances so bad as this!"

Flustered, Mr. Bennet replied, "I thought twenty pounds was reasonable, but it is by no means the most I can—" again, he paused, thoughtful. He knew that his wife's expenses alone were likely to make him at least 200 pounds per year richer now that they were at an end—for Jane had never been frugal. "I can offer one hundred pounds," he said, "if you think that more likely to be—"

"Oh, yes, that is better! Much better!" Mrs. Buxton interrupted, and she took the letter from Mr. Bennet's hands—for he had lifted it from the table only moments before—and declared, "I shall write your answer myself. I shall see to everything myself, and when I have done, you will have no cause to repine."

As Mrs. Buxton fled the table, letter in hand, Mr. Bennet muttered, "Besides the loss of my wife, I believe you are right, madame."

The appropriate letters were sent, terms agreed upon, and dates confirmed. Within a fortnight of Mrs. Buxton's coming, it was agreed that Miss Hattie Watson would be governess at Longbourn, and in another fortnight, she would arrive and begin her post.

Mrs. Buxton was highly satisfied with herself. She did not particularly like children, but she ached to think of them suffering. The eldest two of her cousin's daughters, at least, appeared to her to be very sad. They did not run about and play quite as much as the younger children did, and all seemed prone to looking about the room whenever somebody entered it. Their little hearts, she imagined, would be quicker to recover than their father's—and quicker still if they were to have another woman to attach themselves to. A governess would supply the place of a mother most charmingly, and who could be better than Miss Watson? She resolved to stay only long enough to see the new governess comfortably settled, and then would return to Shropshire.

Her stay also served a secondary purpose: it kept Miss Gardiner out of Mr. Bennet's way. Mrs. Buxton instantly saw that her cousin was an indecisive man, easily influenced by the ideas of others. Left to himself, he was more likely not to act than to act, simply due to the convenience of it. Miss Gardiner's foolish ideas about keeping a child's upbringing solely within a family were just the sort of thinking most dangerous to a mind like Mr. Bennet's. Anything she could do to put this sister-in-law in her place, she therefore did—and a result was that after a fortnight, Miss Gardiner would not be prevailed upon to call on Mr. Bennet for any reason, and after a month, she would not even entertain a thought of him calling on her. A distance began to grow between Mr. Bennet and his wife's relations—and the arrival of Miss Watson served only to confirm it.

Miss Watson, fashionable, young, and pretty, had been in fading health for two years while living with a family at the heart of London and experiencing all that dirty air, close quarters, and little exercise could do. Though she loved the activity and bustle of the city, she knew that she could never survive such conditions for long, and the situation offered by Mr. Bennet was a most agreeable alternative. That there would be four girls to manage did slightly intimidate her, but upon her arrival at Longbourn, she was relieved to find, at least, that three of the four little children were very pretty indeed. She should have hated to spend all day chasing after plain children or ugly children, but these were charming, bright-eyed girls who would be a pleasure to her to raise.

"I hope," Mrs. Buxton whispered to her when she arrived, "that you shall not find Miss Gardiner too much in your way. She is, you know, the girls' aunt, and she is soon to be married. I trust that she shall have enough business of her own then to be less concerned with Mr. Bennet's."

"Is she a disagreeable woman, ma'am?" Miss Watson had asked, with some degree of worry.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Buxton confirmed, "most disagreeable and foolish, with no sense of what is proper. I understand her sister was a lovely woman, and very accomplished—but none of her family shared such distinctions, I am afraid."

The fact was that Mrs. Buxton knew nothing about Mrs. Bennet—who in fact had been neither accomplished nor intelligent, and was much more similar to her sister than to Mrs. Buxton—but it sought her own ideas to imagine that Mrs. Bennet was another woman just like her: busy, sensible, confident, and practical. Having come a long distance to help her cousin in his time of distress, she could not brook the thought that another woman was already supplying help—and help of a very different nature. Justifying herself was no small part of Mrs. Buxton's wishes when she told Miss Watson to keep the children away from their aunt and uncle as much as she could.

"I shall do my best," Miss Watson replied in a whisper, "but my first task, I believe, shall be to procure proper books and instruments for the children. I was shocked to find they have not even a harp!"

While Mrs. Bennet had brought a pianoforte with her to Longbourn upon her marriage, this was the only musical instrument in the house. There had been no plan for instructing the girls in art or languages, and not even a paintbrush could be found within the children's nursery. Miss Watson's plan for the children began immediately, for she came to Mr. Bennet to insist that several purchases be made, and was rewarded with the free use of his pocket money for the purpose. This was perhaps the most gratifying notion of all in Miss Watson's new living arrangements—that her employer was highly suggestible, and likely to do whatever she wished him to do. She had been struggling to force herself to submit to the notions of her previous employers, who were proud, important people in London and who treated Miss Watson as though she were a servant. Having been brought up in her uncle's household, it was a degradation indeed. But now, she felt herself given all the rights of an equal—her opinions consulted, her requests met, her suggestions heeded. So happy was she with her arrangements at Longbourn that she wrote to her friends in London to tell them that she was certain she should live here a very long time, and that she hoped the next time she saw them would be in Ramsgate—for she was certain she could very easily convince Mr. Bennet to bring the little girls there on holiday within a twelve-month.

_**Chapter 2**_

As years passed, neither Miss Watson's influence over her employer nor her satisfaction with her post underwent any significant change. The little girls were the usual mixture of disruptive and delightful, and as they grew older Miss Watson found herself particularly attached to the middle two. Little Lizzie had a penchant for reading, appropriate skill on the piano forte and harp, and strong ideas and opinions—all by the time she was nine years old. Her younger sister Mary, though plain, proved to be rather the most studious of the children, and certainly the most skilled in music, though her taste was lacking. Miss Watson had her hands full with designing lessons for the girls and raising them to be respectable little people, but it did not require so much of her time that there was none leftover for leisure. On the contrary, Miss Watson used her powers of persuasion to entice her employer to take his family on frequent vacations, which were the means of bringing her to the seaside at least twice per year.

By Miss Watson's guidance, Mr. Bennet began to think nothing could be better for his poor, motherless daughters than the fresh, open air of a seaside town. The family had not been in the habit of travelling before—Mrs. Bennet had never felt travel to agree with her nerves—but it was not an idea that Mr. Bennet disliked. He was, as ever, rather disinclined for extraneous planning or effort, but this was nothing with Miss Watson at hand to make plans for him. Nary a summer passed when she had not determined a proper place for the family to visit. These places were invariably fashionable and popular, and often Miss Watson met with her own friends there from her former life. Her enjoyments, having salary enough to dress herself as a lady and freedom enough to call on her friends once a week, were about as great as anyone in her station in life can hope to have. Whatever her hopes may have been to find for herself a more eligible, more permanent situation among the friends and acquaintances she met in these locales must be left to conjecture. However, while she had very little luck in romance at the seaside, the same could not be said for Mr. Bennet.

Having still the prospect before him of his property being made over to others and his daughters being left destitute, Mr. Bennet had never given up on the idea of remarrying, should a suitable partner come in his way. A male heir would one day provide stability for his children, could he but produce one—yet he was in his mid-forties and was only a moderately well-looking man. He had very little hope of attracting any woman who might mutually attract him, and even less of her being someone who might come to love his children as her own. So uncertain was Mr. Bennet on this prospect that he began, shortly after hiring Miss Watson, to curtail the family's finances and set aside large sums for his children's dowries, relying almost entirely on their inheriting enough to support them all, should no other help come their way.

Where worry sees and notices all, however, love is often blind, and the summer that Mr. Bennet fell in love marked the end of all his worries on the matter. While visiting Bath on holiday at the recommendation of Miss Watson, Mr. Bennet happened by chance to meet a young lady whose beauty and elegance captivated him just as surely as his clever and lively temper won her. Lady Sarah Radcliffe was fifteen years Mr. Bennet's junior, but she seemed to think nothing of the difference when she met the gentleman in the Pump Room, where he happened to be escorting his eldest daughters—who, though they were not out, longed to see the society, gowns, and bustle of Bath.

It happened to be Miss Watson's day off, and Mr. Bennet was joking with his daughters when he was approached by a lady who came over to him with some boldness to inquire as to why such little girls had come to the Pump Room that day.

"It is not every day, sir," she said, "that I see little children among our set. I find the novelty of it perfectly charming, I assure you."

Mr. Bennet, who had been laughing with his children about something in another part of the room, looked up and was arrested by the sharp blue eyes of the woman standing before him. "I am glad somebody finds them charming," he answered with a twinkle in his eye, "though perhaps we ought not to let them hear it. I have only just been convinced this morning to let them have a glimpse of the Pump Room, and now they shall wish to see it every day—and their governess will not be happy with me then."

In front of Mr. Bennet, little Jane and Lizzie, now eleven and nine years old, were looking up at the woman in front of them with only half-interest. There was so much to see in the room, and so much novelty, that it was only the introduction which followed that could capture the children's interest again.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the lady said with a smile. "I should certainly not wish to make their governess angry—and that is to say nothing of their mother!"

The faded smile on Mr. Bennet's face seemed to say all he could not verbalize in response, and their new friend was all the more interested in the handsome stranger and his children upon realizing that he must be a widower. "As to that," he said, "they have only me, and have for four years."

"Poor dears!" the stranger cried. "And poor you—for I daresay you must have plenty to do, raising two little girls all alone."

With a faint blush, Mr. Bennet told her that there were four girls in all. "Forgive me, but may I ask for your name?" he said, realizing that there was nobody at hand to introduce them, but that he would not be unwilling to know the lady better.

"My name is Lady Sarah Radcliffe," she said, a smile and a curtsey showing that she was not offended to be asked.

The name Radcliffe was enough to make the whole family start, for the girls and their father, by their governess's information, knew that a family of the peerage of England was now in Bath by the name of Radcliffe. The Earl Radcliffe, an aging, amiable man, was known to have come with his wife and youngest daughter for a brief holiday. Miss Watson had been wild to see the family, if she could catch a glimpse of them, and was particularly interested in seeing the daughter, who at one-and-thirty was known to be rather an old maid. Both children knew the name well enough to have their attention captured by it, and their little faces turned up toward her with renewed interest.

Mr. Bennet was not less startled. "Forgive me, madame," he said, though he hardly knew for what. "I should not have asked for an introduction if I—"

"Why should you apologize?" she asked, smiling. "I am the one who approached you, after all—and you have yet to tell me your name."

He told her, and her manners toward him were so welcoming that he continued to speak to her, though he was only a country gentleman and her claims were high above his. However, he could not remain in the Pump Room for long; his girls were much too young, and he had only intended to give them a short glimpse. It was with regret, therefore, that he took his leave of her a quarter of an hour later, having only briefly mentioned his own name and where his family was in lodgings. This information, in the possession of a determined and confident lady, was enough. The card of "Lady Sarah Radcliffe" was left in Knight Street the following morning, as well as that of Lady Radcliffe herself. These honors had Miss Watson absolutely in raptures, and she was hardly able to conceal her dismay at being left at home when Mr. Bennet paid his return visit to the family. She must at this time, however, accept her fate: as governess, her station with the children was fixed. It was her lot only to hear about what had taken place, but never to witness any of the exchanges—most interesting in nature—which were occurring between her master and the fair lady.

She learned, by and by, that Lady Sarah was well known for being outspoken, stubborn, and forceful about having her own way. These qualities had made it difficult for her to find a marriage partner who suited her ideas of happiness—a man who would submit to her, follow her lead, and allow her the freedom she had never been able to fully enjoy in her parents' house. Her impressions of Mr. Bennet, though he had not noble blood and though he was a widower, were exactly what she could wish for. She observed with pleasure how easily he conformed to her ideas, how readily he acquiesced to her ways of thinking. His sense of humor charmed her, but it was his lack of activity and decision that made him truly appealing to her. This much, Miss Watson learned from the servants of both houses, as Mr. Bennet's carriage man was always quick to report what he saw to the upper house maid, who related all she knew to Miss Watson.

The Bennet family planned to remain in Bath for four weeks after this acquaintance began, but Miss Watson's first hint of the seriousness of the connection between her master and the lady was Mr. Bennet's sudden plan—without consulting her—to extend the visit another fortnight. He had spent some portion of every day with Lady Sarah, and his feelings toward her were unlike any Miss Watson had ever seen him display toward anyone, excepting how he spoke about his unfortunate wife. She began to feel concerned that her own influence would never be what it had been again, and she could not quite determine how she felt about this change. While she should certainly be made unhappy if her influence decreased, should she not also be quite pleased if the connection to the Radcliffe family were made permanent? Could not such a connection ultimately benefit her? Miss Watson was still making up her mind over this issue when a new development occurred to make her wonder if the point was not moot.

Mr. Bennet returned home one night shortly after this extension of stay had been determined with the sudden resolution that he should not stay in Bath any longer, after all.

"Miss Watson," he said as he entered the parlor of their lodgings, where Hattie often sat up after the girls had gone to bed. "Good, you are here—as I thought you would be. I begin to fear I was wrong to extend our stay. I wonder if we might not better leave at once."

This was said in a voice of heightened emotion, and enough agitation was visible in Mr. Bennet's face to raise Miss Watson's concern. "Certainly, sir, if you wish it," she said, setting aside her book and rising to her feet. "But may I first inquire as to why? Forgive me, but it seems so sudden—only yesterday we determined to lengthen our stay, and I do not know that the keeper of our lodgings will be willing to refund what has been paid him already."

This argument was weak in Mr. Bennet's eyes; he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "As to that," he said, "I should not consider myself losing anything substantial. It will cost me the same whether we stay or go."

"Yes, sir," Miss Watson said slowly, "but the girls were so very happy to learn they were to stay longer." This was not quite the truth; Miss Watson had been met with indifference—and a slight amount of disappointment—when she related this plan to the girls. She, however, had found it a good opportunity to extend her own enjoyments, see her own friends, and perhaps begin to benefit from a connection with a family that still very much interested her. So much did she long to know more of the Radcliffes that she took the risk of saying, "May I ask, sir, if something happened at dinner to occasion this change?"

Mr. Bennet had been dining with Lord and Lady Radcliffe , as he had sometimes done since his first meeting with Lady Sarah. Her father and mother had seemed to be distinguishing him with attention that could not be misinterpreted. However, the expression on Mr. Bennet's face now was equally impossible to misconstrue: he had not had a pleasant evening. He shook his head, stomping across the room and stopping near the fireplace before looking steadily inside it at the coolly burning logs only barely alight. "It is not worth repeating," he said. "But I do not wish to disappoint the girls." He looked up suddenly toward Miss Watson. "I will not be hasty, however," he said. "I will give myself time to consider. In the morning, I will tell you my decision."

The idea of his again making a decision without her was grating, and Miss Watson left the room with the determination to learn exactly what had happened at dinner. Going toward the servants' quarters, she was not long in meeting Mrs. Cook, who was quick to relate all she had learned on the matter.

"Well, Miss, have you heard about the master's dinner?"

"I have only heard what he will say about it," Miss Watson answered in a whisper, "which is very little. But come, tell me everything, for I am burning with curiosity."

"Hammond says that the dinner was highly insulting to Mr. Bennet. He says that another gentleman was there—a gentleman that neither Mr. Bennet nor Lady Sarah knew would be invited. He says it was made quite clear that the Earl and Countess wanted her to marry this man, and not Mr. Bennet. But they were both so angry that Mr. Bennet said outright that he wanted to marry her, and then the Earl said it would be shocking and degrading, and then Lady Sarah argued that it would not be, and she said she loved Mr. Bennet. But nothing about love could persuade the Earl, and he refused his consent so strongly that Mr. Bennet got up and left, though it was only the third course, and Hammond says they always have five courses!"

"Shocking, indeed!" Miss Watson cried, leaving aside for the moment her curiosity about just how the family dined, which was not a matter of total indifference to her. "Then what did the lady say, however? Has she relinquished the match entirely?"

But Mrs. Cook could offer no more particular information about that. After Miss Watson had continued to interrogate her in this manner for some time, and Mrs. Cook continued not to know anything useful besides what she had already shared, Miss Watson thanked her and departed to her own room to think over all she had heard. She was astonished that a family that had seemingly gone out of their way to affirm Mr. Bennet's interest in their daughter should now be so pointed in their rejection of him—but more so, she was curious as to what would happen now. Though she had still not had the honor of meeting any member of that family, she had heard enough about them to feel that Lady Sarah was not a woman likely to submit to a marriage with a man she did not love. The man from the dinner, therefore, was of no concern to Miss Watson, though he was evidently greatly troubling to Mr. Bennet. Instead, Miss Watson thought over whether or not she was pleased. She would, she suspected, soon regain all her former influence over Mr. Bennet—but would it be worth the sacrifice of the connection with the Radcliffes for which Miss Watson had such high expectations? To be known to be a governess in the family of the Earl Radcliffe was a higher distinction than Miss Watson had ever hoped to achieve. She had been satisfied enough merely to have a salary better than those of all her friends and the ability to travel to see many of them and enjoy leisure time in exotic places. These blessings were more than enough to make any young lady happy, and for one who had descended from relative affluence to the station of governess, they were extraordinary. But Miss Watson was never satisfied with what she had once she learned that something better might be on offer; her appetite for greater fashion and influence was insatiable. She fell asleep that evening convincing herself that she ought to be grateful and content no matter what took place, but secretly feeling that she could never be fully satisfied again if her master did not marry the daughter of the Earl Radcliffe.

It is lucky for Miss Watson that Lady Sarah fell asleep that night with a similar feeling: she knew she should never be happy again if she did not marry Mr. Bennet. Though his estate was not large, her own fortune would increase his income and enable them to live fashionably as the principle family of their own village. His little children were pretty and well-behaved, and moreover, there was a governess to keep them out of the way. Living in Hertfordshire would mean being far enough from her parents to be out of the reach of their strong influence over her, and to live with Mr. Bennet would mean a home with a man she genuinely loved who would always let her do exactly as she pleased. She could not imagine a situation that would suit her better; she must and would marry Mr. Thomas Bennet.

The morning came, and her resolve did not weaken. She went to her mother and father directly, and with powers of persuasion assisted by such angry and exasperating manners as made both her parents soon tire of speaking to her, she convinced them both that, while it was very far from the best match she could make, it was not so totally degrading that they must utterly forbid it. They could not be proud of such a son-in-law, nor could they give any honors of distinction to his daughters. They felt that marrying a man with four children between the ages of six and eleven had inherent difficulties that Sarah did not now perceive. They had long held hopes of her making a match that would improve the connections of the family and were now being asked to submit to the dissolution of all those hopes. These facts were laid before her, but could do nothing to weaken her resolve—and so resolute, in fact, was the lady, that neither parent could long withstand the force of her arguments. If she would not have any other man, and if she would not hear reason, nor submit to the wise and careful judgements of her parents, then they would allow their wayward daughter to have her own way. They would not prevent her marrying the man she chose, if she were so truly and stubbornly persistent.

The lady's purpose prevailed; she obtained their consent.

Mr. Bennet had not yet come to a decision—for his indecisive nature was now as active as ever—and was talking the matter over with Miss Watson the following morning, no closer to making a firm choice than he had been the night before, when the servant announced the entrance of Lady Sarah herself. Miss Watson, after many weeks' suspense, was finally permitted the sight of the lady in question. She was no beauty, yet her figure and posture reflected her nobility. Miss Watson's duty looking after the children was instantly her first object, and she was standing at once, directing the little girls to show respect to their guest—but it soon became apparent that Lady Sarah wished to speak with Mr. Bennet without an audience. As there was no particular reason to introduce a governess to a member of the nobility, any more so than there was to introduce a child, Miss Watson quickly ushered the children out of the room to play in their own nursery. The eldest two, at least, seemed almost too curious to mind their governess, and Lizzie even claimed to have left something in the parlor, that she might be permitted to go back inside to retrieve it. But Miss Watson was firm; the children must stay here until their father summoned them back again. She was certain that he would; upon seeing Lady Sarah, she was certain how it all would be.

Indeed, when he came again to them, it was in much higher spirits. He was as much subdued in his person as ever, but his eyes were dancing with merriment, and he asked the girls to hear him with all the awkward enthusiasm of a prosperous lover.

"My darlings," he said, kneeling near the little table where the children were at work at various little projects, "I have something to tell you that will, I think, not surprise you—and that will make us all very happy. I know that we have all suffered since the death of your dear mother, and that there has been nobody suitable who has come along who could ever replace her." Glancing up at Miss Watson, he added, "Excepting, of course, the excellent care of your dear governess, whom I hope will be so good as to stay with our family and continue to provide her services after…well…" He sighed, smiling, and rocked back on his knees. "Our family is to be joined by a woman who, of course, can never replace your mother. But I hope we shall all be much happier. I have asked Lady Sarah Radcliffe to marry me, and she has accepted. It has all been arranged between us, and I am to go to her mother and father again this evening. She shall move to Longbourn and be your stepmother."

The girls were not entirely unprepared for this news, for as long as Miss Watson had suspected something of that nature, she had spoken of it freely to the servants, and the presence of the children had not hindered her communicativeness. She had never doubted that her continued employment would be wanted, though Mr. Bennet's mention of it now seemed to warrant a response from her. As soon as the children had finished kissing their father and congratulating him, Miss Watson graciously accepted his invitation to remain with the family.

"I am delighted, sir," she said. "I know how happy you shall be, and I am sure we shall all go on very nicely together."

"Yes," Mr. Bennet said, the smug expression of his face not abating as he rose to his feet. "I certainly hope that we shall."

**_Chapter 3_**

While the Earl and Countess Radcliffe never came to Longbourn to mark the occasion, the wedding of their youngest daughter to Mr. Thomas Bennet was nonetheless a significant occurrence for them. Having already two daughters and a son married, and several grandchildren besides, they had enough in the way of impressive and lofty connections not to blush too terribly over their new, modest ones. Mr. Bennet, for all his faults of birth and fortune, was not entirely hopeless. His sluggardly nature they soon perceived, but as it did not seem to bother Lady Sarah, her parents could hardly be particular about it. His having already four daughters was perhaps the most shameful thing about the connection; that they were all girls, at least, meant that their own daughter had the opportunity to produce an heir of her own to inherit the Longbourn estate—but this was the only benefit of the circumstance. The girls were the descendants of a country attorney whose fortune and property were so vastly inferior to their own that Lady Sarah's parents were more or less set against ever distinguishing them through any attention beyond the mildest recognition of their new relationship in the form of a line or two at the conclusion of their letters to their daughter.

Lady Sarah, for her part, did not come to regret connecting herself with Mr. Bennet, regardless of what her parents might have felt or anticipated on that account. Rather, she was happier all the time with the situation. She had not been mistaken in the character or the temperament of her husband. He remained, as he had been in Bath, pleasant, amicable, steady, and good-humored. He made her laugh, and his opinions were so quick to bend to her own as gave her a better chance of felicity in marriage than she had perhaps ever known before. Her strong-willed temper made most men draw back from her in disgust, but Mr. Bennet had no such qualms about her. Having lost his first wife long before she had ever ceased to charm him, he was disposed to love again—and, when in love, to be blinded by his affections. In Lady Sarah, he saw no flaws at all. As perfect as she was to him on their wedding day, she remained a year hence, when she was safely delivered of a healthy baby girl, and two years after that, when she at last produced the male heir whom Mr. Bennet had never quite despaired of expecting.

Young master Phillip's birth marked a change in the Bennet house that it had not seen after the birth of little Sarah. Though Sarah was highly beloved by her mother and father, as well as doted on by her half-sisters, she was not celebrated the way Phillip was. His first cries, healthy and robust, filled the house with such unexpected joy that could not be compared with any previous birth ever to occur there. Lady Sarah had been convinced that her firstborn would be a boy—for her superiority of birth compared with her husband's first wife must be balanced with superior outcomes in every area of their lives. Already she encouraged him to run his household with more economy, though her fortune increased his income. She surrounded him with more prestigious friends, though this meant insulting certain of his neighbors. It was only fitting that she would be the means of keeping his estate in the Bennet line—and she was not disappointed in her hopes upon the birth of their second child.

"Do not disturb the baby!" became a mantra of hers which could be heard by any of the children at any time of day or night. Now that the eldest of her stepdaughters was fourteen years old, Lady Sarah might be expected to have wished to enlist the young lady's assistance with her own little children—but no such wish seemed to present itself. So prized was little Phillip that Lady Sarah could hardly bear the thought of any other person touching him besides herself and the nurse.

To keep her stepchildren out of her way, Lady Sarah had kept on Miss Watson as governess, and Jane and Elizabeth often confided in her as they might have done a mother—and it was to her that Jane first voiced her complaint (for complaint it must be called) that Lady Sarah never let her near her brother.

"I do not mean to be unkind," Jane said softly, "but I do wish that Lady Sarah would allow me to help sometimes with little Phillip. I was not unhelpful, I think, with our dear Sarah when she was an infant."

"I cannot understand it," Miss Watson replied, "for she never allows me to help either. It is nobody but Miss Johnson who is ever allowed near him—and I do not know what Miss Johnson has that I do not have."

Miss Johnson was a nurse who had been in the Radcliffe family for some time whom Lady Sarah had hired to care for her own children, believing her to be superior to the nurse Longbourn had previously employed. Elizabeth, who at twelve years old was rather cleverer than her elder sister, and much better tempered than her governess, said, "I understand it perfectly, however. Consider—we can none of us inherit Papa's estate. We would be turned out penniless upon his death if we did not have a brother to one day receive it. Little Phillip's health and wellness is worth perhaps more than any of ours. He is to be the master of this house one day, and we shall benefit from that as much as anybody."

"But my helping with him," Jane said, "cannot endanger him."

"No, it cannot," Elizabeth said. "I said I understood—but I did not say that it was anything but nonsense. We are his sisters; what can be safer than our holding him? But perhaps Lady Sarah is worried we shall make him ill."

"Though I am not his sister," Miss Watson inserted, "I think I should be just as qualified to hold a baby as either of you."

Jane gave Miss Watson a pitying look—and the governess, recollecting herself, guided the girls back to the lesson she had been giving them in French. She only added, in a more cheerful voice, "Perhaps your stepmother shall soon become more reasonable about him, however. She cannot prevent your holding him forever."

However, these expectations were not completely correct—partly because they failed to grasp Lady Sarah's true feelings. Lady Sarah was always in the habit of distinguishing her husband's daughters with the attention she believed they deserved. The eldest two, at least, she liked very well for being pretty, amiable girls. She had a friend in London years ago who had married a man who already had two daughters, and those girls were frightful to look at—broad-faced and coarse, with nothing of the genteel charm of her own stepdaughters. She was rather proud of them, and their example for her own daughter was valuable to her. Now, however, there was no comparison between how she felt toward her husband's girls and how she felt toward her son. Compared with him, they were nobody at all.

While she had appeared relatively indifferent to Jane, the truth was that Elizabeth noticed and felt all the affront of her stepmother's behavior more than any of her sisters did. She had been too young upon her mother's passing to remember much of her or to feel deprived of a mother's affection too acutely, but she still felt uneasy when she considered the level of disdain with which her stepmother had begun to treat herself and her sisters—especially the youngest two. Mary and Kitty were all but ignored by their stepmother, and the scolding they all received for being too loud or too rough around Phillip—unfounded, unfair complaints by anybody's rational judgment—were far worse for the girls who were only ten and eight. It was not long after Jane's complaint that Elizabeth approached her father privately to inquire after his opinion in the matter.

"Your stepmother is not quite a natural with children," he answered after she explained more or less her impressions, "but she loves you and your sisters as much as I ever could wish. I am very sure she does."

"Jane and I are not children, however," Elizabeth replied. "We are practically grown up."

"Sarah had no children before she married me, you know," Mr. Bennet said. "While in my eyes, you seem quite grown up, her perspective is different. You know that she is prone to worry, and we all ought to do all we can to relieve her."

This did not quite settle Elizabeth's mind. She asked her father, slowly, as though unsure how to put the idea into words, "Does…does Lady Sarah…like us?"

At this, her father set down his book—for he had still been reading at his desk—and looked at his second-eldest daughter with some surprise. "Of course, Lizzy. She loves you."

"She never wants us near her," Elizabeth answered, looking down and away. "It is not only little Phillip; it happens so often, so increasingly often, that I hardly know how to describe it. She tells me at least one time every day that I am disturbing her, when all I want to do is talk. I never mean to disturb anybody, but…"

Now fully attentive to his daughter's complaint—for Mr. Bennet was not so wholly inattentive a father as to have missed all of his wife's behavior of that nature, though the thought of worrying about it had not occurred to him—he said, "A misunderstanding, my love. It is all a misunderstanding. I am sure that Sarah enjoys talking to you, but with a little boy at hand, she is so busy—"

"Last month, when her friends Mr. and Mrs. Cole came to visit, only Phillip was allowed in the room. None of us could come downstairs," Elizabeth said.

Mr. Bennet had noticed this, as well—but again, he had thought it kindness in his wife that prevented her forcing the children to be bored and well-behaved in the presence of these stuffy strangers whose visit was really only on account of the boy.

"She did not mean to exclude you," Mr. Bennet said slowly, "but I can understand why you might have misunderstood."

The word "misunderstanding" was not one often used with Elizabeth, for she was indeed very clever. Few topics and few ideas left her without understanding, and even fewer without a decided opinion. It was only that her opinion on this topic was so very disagreeable to her that kept her from stating it outright, or even fully admitting it to herself, or to her father. She was convinced, in short, that her stepmother did not really love her and her sisters—though she had sometimes tolerated them relatively well. She felt decidedly rejected by her, and the circumstance of her brother's birth did nothing but confirm the lack of attachment that she had been feeling for some time.

Though he could sometimes be slow to perceive what happened around him, Mr. Bennet's mind was not slow. After Elizabeth had illuminated the circumstance to him, Mr. Bennet could not fail to notice that his wife showed so decided a preference for her own children as left his four first-borns quite distinctly neglected. Jane and Elizabeth, as the eldest and most deserving of his girls for being sensible and good-natured, were perhaps the most to be pitied. Jane's tender feelings were often wounded, he now saw, by Lady Sarah's neglect of her. Elizabeth was not so easy to wound, but she was nonetheless offended. It was, in short, the first thing to happen since his marriage to Lady Sarah Radcliffe that opened Mr. Bennet's eyes to one or two of her faults. She was not affectionate; she was not patient. Her love for him—which yet he did not doubt—did not extend as fully to his children as it ought to have. His marriage—a circumstance which he had once hoped would ultimately be to his children's advantage—he now saw as likely to do them more harm than good, if something could not be done to guide them along a better course.

Wanting to bring up the circumstance with his wife, but unsure exactly how to approach it, he bided his time until one day, a few months hence, when Lady Sarah said something herself that made an opening for his concerns to take voice.

"My love," she had said, "have we enough money to hire a second nurse for Phillip?"

"A second nurse?" Mr. Bennet looked up, surprised. "Have we need of a second nurse?"

"Gemma cannot be with him all the time," Lady Sarah answered, "and I grow rather weary myself, at times."

Mr. Bennet looked thoughtfully at his wife before saying, "I should never hesitate to provide anything you think necessary, but would a nurse be the first idea? We have in our own household helpers enough, have we not?"

Lady Sarah sighed and looked out the window. "I do not like Miss Watson, though I know the girls have become so attached to her that it would be cruel to remove her. She is showy and corresponds a great deal too often with her friends."

Indeed, Miss Watson—being prevented now from frequent travels by the young children at hand—had been reduced to writing to friends and spending her income on gowns and trinkets that had become the passion of her life. This example was one that Mr. Bennet sometimes worried would set his girls wrong, but their attachment to their governess far outweighed any risk.

"I had not meant Miss Watson, however," Mr. Bennet replied. "What do you say to allowing Jane and Lizzy a bit more responsibility with their brother? My Jane is such a steady girl, and so kind-tempered. I daresay you could not find a nurse who would be her superior in gentleness, or Lizzy's in sense."

Before he had finished speaking, his wife was shaking her head. "I would prefer a real nurse, however—someone who knew how to hold a baby and help with him properly."

"They were quite helpful with little Sarah," Mr. Bennet protested mildly, "were they not? Jane is still Sarah's favorite, I know. She is always asking after her."

"Yes," Lady Sarah said, "with girls that is all fine and well. But a little boy is different and requires a different kind of care. Besides, I should not wish to exhaust them with work. You know, I am only thinking of them."

Mr. Bennet laughed, though he had begun to feel a slight sense of dread. "Exhaust them? Why, who is more inexhaustible than a young lady? The girls would be delighted to help with their brother. They have mentioned it to me, I know—and I am sure I have heard them mention it to you."

"They are only being polite," Lady Sarah said, again looking away from her husband and not meeting his gaze full on. "As a woman who was once a young lady herself, I can tell you that they would much rather not help. It is far better that they keep to their own studies in their own part of the house."

Their own part of the house was a little library on the second floor which Lady Sarah had specifically recommended for the purpose of a school room—but it was small and cramped, and something about its location tucked into a wing of the house where nobody ever went made Mr. Bennet think Lady Sarah was trying to get rid of them. Slowly, he said, "We cannot cloister them away forever, my dear. They are growing up. Jane, at least, will soon be out. She will expect to see and be seen."

"She will expect what she is permitted to expect," Lady Sarah answered, and Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows. Softening her tone, she said, "Come, what is really the matter? Is it so much trouble to hire a nurse?"

"No," Mr. Bennet said seriously. "There is money enough to hire one, but at what cost?"

"You said there is money enough," his wife said, with a smile that intended to—but could not fully—charm him.

"I do not mean a financial cost," he said. "The girls are clever; they will feel slighted, even though their good nature will prevent their complaining about it."

Lady Sarah looked away in frustration, and Mr. Bennet softened his tone as he stood up to approach her. "Come, my love," he said. "What is really the matter? Why is it so important to keep the girls at a distance from Phillip?"

"He is our only male child," she answered. "I do not want to have any more children."

This was news to Mr. Bennet—and not extremely welcome news. Yet he put it aside for the moment to ask, "Why should that force us to keep the girls away from him?"

"I do not want them to be jealous," Lady Sarah said, "for they shall inherit only what you leave them, and dear Phillip shall inherit the estate and half my fortune."

"I have no objection to that, my dear," Mr. Bennet said. "I only object to them being made to feel they are of a lesser class than the rest of their family. Prevented from interacting with their brother, sequestered to a lonely corner of the house—"

"As to that," his fair one interrupted, "I do not mean to sequester the girls. On the contrary, I should be glad if they were seen more. If they could but see more of the world, I know it would do them a great deal of good—and it would allow them to be seen as well. But, as you say, they are not yet out."

Mr. Bennet was silent, reflecting. He did not like for his own words to be twisted and used against him, but neither did he like to suspect his wife of such manipulation. Too clever to be swayed by her, but too much in love to know when he was being swayed, he was still mulling over his reply when Lady Sarah said, "I know, Mr. Bennet. I know what we shall do."

She rose and walked to another part of the room, finding a book that she removed from the shelf and turning its pages. It was a book of names and addresses. Looking up again, she said, "I should be a cruel stepmother, indeed, if I did not do everything in my power to ensure that my husband's daughters are brought up well, considered highly in the world, and treated with respect. Now, they are only country children learning under the care of a governess. But what would you say to their going to London for school? Before you reply, consider—their educations in town would be ten times what they receive here. They would become clever, truly clever—and is not Elizabeth at least already quite clever? She will be remarkably so once she has been a year or two in school! And Jane will make friends who will be sure to introduce her to eligible gentlemen—rich gentlemen, for whom her lack of fortune will be nothing at all! I daresay little Catherine, when she is old enough, will be greatly benefited by a London education, and Mary will be so formed by it as to become quite a different creature altogether. She has some talent now, but if she goes away to school, she will have taste!"

Mr. Bennet had now risen to his feet, as well, and he approached his wife hardly knowing how to reply to her. "You want…to send the girls away?"

"Not forever!" she answered dismissively, glancing up at him as she walked toward a desk to begin composing a letter. "You would still see them, my love, as often as you want! They will be home every holiday, and they will be welcome here again as soon as their schooling ends—only think how improved they shall be!" She smiled and added, "I daresay they will not need to come home again, however. When they are known to be our daughters, and when they are truly formed by the fashionable world, men will line up to court them."

The idea of men lining up to court his daughter was not the most appealing to Mr. Bennet, either. He began to pace.

"I shall only write to my mother's friend, Lady Ashley," she said. "I shall only see if any space is available at the private school for which her husband is patron. It is quite fashionable, Mr. Bennet, I assure you—and I am perfectly willing to finance such an education myself, though it shall be more costly than most. I think nothing of the cost, however, at present. I only mean to inquire as to the possibility."

Mr. Bennet had by now become enough acquainted with his wife to know that her professions of what she would "only" do were mere introductions to the full breadth of her schemes. She was not a woman to do anything by halves. If she wrote to her friend, it would be more or less a foregone conclusion that what she was hoping to do would come to pass. Mr. Bennet knew not what to say. An education in London—and financed from his wife's own pocket money—was much better than anything he had ever ventured to secure for his girls before. He was not even sorry to think of the possibility of letting Miss Watson go—for having a wife, what need had he of a governess's assistance?

But Lady Sarah's ideas were different still. "Hattie shall go with them, of course," she said. "We could not send them to London alone. And now," she added, brightening, "there shall be no need of a second nurse! Without so many people bustling about, I shall not be half so fatigued. Oh, Mr. Bennet, do you not see the advantages? It is purely advantageous in every respect!"

How could such enthusiasm be refuted? Mr. Bennet could do nothing but agree to the harmlessness of her inquiry, and wait for the tide of her energy to settle back down into something that might allow reasonable conversation and debate to occur.

_**This concludes the prologue to my full-length JAFF novel, Mr. Darcy & Elizabeth: The Fashionable and Young. Please find it on Amazon to read the rest!**_


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